


The Black Shirt

by MiniatureGlitterSoul



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stan is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniatureGlitterSoul/pseuds/MiniatureGlitterSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley Pines finds a black t-shirt in his brother's closet--and every time he sees it, his feelings about it shift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Shirt

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Black Shirt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489436) by [MiniatureGlitterSoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniatureGlitterSoul/pseuds/MiniatureGlitterSoul), [saisailove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisailove/pseuds/saisailove). 



> This is a companion fic to "The Black Shirt" by saisailove. So if you haven't read that, you should go read it first--otherwise you will likely be confused. I suppose you could read this on its own, but I think it means more if you read her piece first.

The first time Stan saw the shirt, he didn’t recognize it.

It was just a black t-shirt–no adornments, no logos–just another shirt in a crumpled up pile of shirts at the bottom of Ford’s closet. But it was different from the others–they were all buttons and collars, shirts to be worn with ties or under sweaters. That was his brother’s style.

_Nerd_.

But a black t-shirt…?

_Cool_.

Stan picked it up. He ran his thumb over the fabric and remembered, suddenly, how proud he had been of it. It was just a dumb black t-shirt, but he remembered the way it had hugged his shoulders and made him look so tough and how he had bragged about it for weeks.

He smiled.

“It’s just a t-shirt, Stanley,” Ford had said.

So they why was it here?

Stan’s smile faded. He dropped the shirt back into the pile of dirty clothes. He’d have to do laundry eventually, but not now. He had work to do.

* * *

The second time Stan saw the shirt, it was clean.

He stopped in the act of pulling clothes out of the dryer and held the shirt in his hands. He was wearing nothing but a dingy tank top and his boxers–laundry was long overdue, but he’d kept putting it off because he had to keep going, he had to _keep working he couldn’t stop he had to save him–_

He pulled off his tank top and pulled on the black t-shirt. It was too tight now. He’d let himself go in the last ten years, and now the shirt squeezed his beer belly. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at his arms, half-hoping that he’d suddenly look muscular instead of pathetic. He flexed his muscles, just a little, and practically heard Ford’s voice–

_“It’s just a t-shirt, Stanley.”_

_“Can it, Poindexter! You know I look great.”_

Ford had rolled his eyes.

Stan finished pulling the laundry out of the dryer, haphazardly threw Ford’s shirts onto hangars ( _in case I need to look presentable later?_ ), then went back downstairs. He sat down at Ford’s desk and looked through the journal again, trying to find something–anything–that would help him turn this stupid machine back on. But there was nothing about any of this that made sense–it was all more science fiction than any science fact Stan could remember from high school (not that he had payed much attention– _stupid, idiot, moron_ ) and he didn’t understand half of the words he was reading. Not to mention the absolute gibberish his brother had decided to write in. It was all symbols and patterns, none of which made any sense to Stan.

_Who were you hiding from?_

Stan ran his hands through his hair. His stomach growled. He was out of food now. He closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath.

He smelled Ford.

His heart thumped wildly for a moment before he realized–

_I’m wearing his–no,_ my _shirt, washed with_ his _soap._

He sighed. His hands were shaking.

* * *

The third time Stan saw the shirt, he was no longer Stan.

He had been in Gravity Falls for a few months now, and Ford’s old house was slowly turning into a tourist trap. The Murder Hut wasn’t getting much business yet, but it was enough to put food on the table. Not enough to buy new clothes or furniture or parts for that stupid machine–but enough to survive. Which was more than he’d had in ten years. He also had a bed to sleep in, with blankets and pillows but without the threat of cockroaches or Rico’s goons breaking down his door.

But at the cost of…himself.

At the cost of putting on Ford’s clothes every morning and using Ford’s name every day and looking in the mirror and seeing Ford reflected there _every time_ and every time _missing him and failing him and losing him–_

He had food and clothes and a roof over his head, but he had lost them both.

Stan held the black t-shirt in his hands. He didn’t realize he was crying until his tear hit the worn fabric. He pressed the shirt against his chest, clutching it like a lifeline–and it was a lifeline. It was the only thread he had of his former life. It was the only part of him in this entire house. It was the only thing in all of Gravity Falls that reminded him of the time when he had been happy.

When he and Ford had been _themselves and happy and a team._

He sat on Ford’s bedroom floor and cried. It wasn’t the first time he’d cried under this roof–and he knew it wouldn’t be the last–but it was by far the hardest he’d ever cried. He sobbed harder now than he had even after he’d gotten kicked out of his childhood home. His shoulders shook and his breaths went out in loud, choking noises and came in as heavy gasps.

He fell asleep there, crumpled on the floor with the shirt hugged tight to his chest, his cheeks wet, his breathing now slowed but still shuddering.

The shirt smelled like Ford.

* * *

Stan wore the shirt whenever he needed to be reminded of himself.

The words, “I’m Stanford Pines,” rolled so easily off his tongue now that he sometimes forgot he was Stanley with only five fingers and a smooth chin. He knew that if anyone here had met the real Stanford he would never be able to pull this off–he and Ford were too different. They always had been. Stan knew that Ford would never staple a stuffed monkey to a dead fish’s tail and pass it off as a “mermonkey.” Ford wanted real monsters–the things he wrote about in his journal. But none of those would attract customers–they were either too weird or too scary, so Stan made do with what he had on hand–what he knew would bring the money in.

Stan knew that Ford wouldn’t lie and cheat. It was against Ford’s character. But nobody here knew that. Nobody here seemed to have ever met Ford. So they believed the lie.

“Good morning, Stanford!”

“How’s business, Stanford?”

“Stanford Pines, we’re here to ask you some questions about a missing pug…”

The lie was so good, sometimes Stan believed it. That’s when he would grab the black t-shirt from the back of the closet. That’s when he would look at himself in the mirror and say,

“Good morning, Stanley! How’s business, Stanley? Got that portal working yet, Stanley?”

He would retreat into the black t-shirt as he retreated to the basement, pouring over books about physics and complex math that he hadn’t even realized existed before he started working on this dumb machine. He would fiddle with the settings, replace wires, and pray and hope that something would work _please work this time please work this time please work please work please work–_

Nothing ever worked. No matter how much knowledge he packed inside his head, no matter how many times he slammed his fists against the buttons, nothing worked.

_Stupid idiot moron stupid idiot moron you failed you failed you failed._

In his failure he would rub his chest–rubbing away the pain there, rubbing away the fabric of the old black t-shirt… There were holes in it now. He had worn it and washed it so many times that the shirt was fading away.

Stan was fading away.

Ford was fading away.

He clutched at his chest–he clutched at the black t-shirt.

_Good morning, Stanley._

He inhaled slowly–the black t-shirt still smelled like Ford.

_Good morning, Stanford._


End file.
